


Wingwomen

by happox



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drama, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, One-Sided Relationship?, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8043916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happox/pseuds/happox
Summary: Zarya reckons Pharah is in love with Mercy, while Mercy is scared about her feelings towards Pharah and speaks to Mei, who might be in love with Zarya, who is out drinking with Pharah, who is in denial about being in love with Mercy.





	Wingwomen

 

Zaryanova is the one to point it out, and as she does, Fareeha realises that maybe she underestimated her perceptiveness just a tad, though given the distracting mass of muscles which makes up her new friend, maybe her prejudice is understandable. Not that she believes in the stereotype of meatheads in general – she would be a hypocrite if so – but Zaryanova’s boastful of her own strength, and Fareeha did think she would be maybe too focused on herself to lack insight into others.

Not so, apparently. Though she is forceful even in her observations.

“Rocket girl,” she says, approaching Fareeha after a mission, once they have returned to base in the evening. They have both been part of the reinstituted Overwatch for five months by then, but Zaryanova has a habit of calling people by some attribute of theirs over their names. Whether this is a deliberate preference, or simply due to a lack of attentiveness to names, Fareeha hasn’t figured out. She doesn’t mind being Rocket Girl, however.

They joined Overwatch almost at the same time – Fareeha once Overwatch had become recognized and green lit by the U.N. again, and Zaryanova after their first operation in Russia, where her forces and Overwatch’s were joined. Insistent on having a drinking buddy in this new group of hers, Zaryanova had chosen Fareeha for this task, and had been so domineering without seemingly realising the forcefulness of her own persona, Fareeha had ended up going along with it.

She likes Zaryanova, though, so it isn’t a problem, and although it’s thanks to her that she now knows what a true hangover feels like, it has also taught her to drink in moderation and to never try and keep up with a Russian. Most nights.

When she approaches, Fareeha assumes it’s to invite her out for drinks again, and is ready to agree when she notices Zaryanova’s particularly smug, knowing smile. The following slap on Fareeha’s back is easily felt, even through her armour, and she almost staggers forward.

“Well done,” Zaryanova congratulates her. “I saw you today in the field. I look up and see two lovebirds floating in circles over the battlefield. Much impressive.”

“Pardon?” Indeed, Fareeha had flied around a lot during the mission, as she was prone to do. However, “Lovebirds?”

“You and pretty doctor,” Zaryanova says. Winks. “Well done indeed, I wondered when you would make a move, and then I see the two of you flying off together. I don’t even need to wingman!”

Realisation hits Fareeha harder than yet another slap of camaraderie on her back. She pales, says: “Dr. Ziegler?”

“Yes, the angel doctor, always making googly eyes with you.” Zaryanova continues to talk of when she started “seeing it” – the signs of the so-dubbed love birds – but Fareeha cannot truly concentrate on such fabrication.

 Dr. Ziegler flying after her in the field to heal her wounds was strictly related to the mission, and if she perhaps lingered up there past the point of what was needed, it was well within protocol. Just like the time before, and the time before that. It’s safer up there too, and Fareeha much prefers it when she is there with her, so she can keep the doctor out of harm. It’s a strategically preferable manoeuvre.

And, if Fareeha has said some undeliberate flirty line like keeping the skies clear together, it is not the same as making a move, and she certainly has no intentions of doing so.

No, never mind all that, Fareeha doesn’t think that way about Dr. Ziegler to begin with. Sure, when she was a young girl and had seen Dr. Ziegler for the very first time, looking astoundingly mature and angelic even at the age of 17, she might have had something of a crush. At least, her feelings towards this particular Overwatch agent had been very different from her hero worship of Reinhardt, and she isn’t embarrassed to admit that.

However. Making her move. Googly eyes. Lovebirds?

Her silence might give Zaryanova the wrong idea, she realises, so she attempts to disprove her muscle-bound friend. By asking: “Do we really look that way?” she might fail to do so.

Zaryanova laughs with her hands on her hips, shaking her head dramatically.

“Comrade, I know signs of love when I see them. The only times pretty doctor comes out of the med bay is when she’s looking for you. And I have seen you carry her back to her room when she falls asleep in there, yes?”

It’s quite an extensive list, Fareeha has to agree, which Zaryanova knows at the top of her head. A mission in China when Fareeha had been stationed at the base, when she had asked Zaryanova to keep Dr. Ziegler safe. Because keeping the medical team safe is only logical, and who better to do that than her, when Fareeha isn’t around? Then, that time she saw Fareeha on the brink in the med bay late at night, with Dr. Ziegler tending to her wounds, in a supposedly very intimate fashion – which Zaryanova hadn’t wished to interrupt. Because why wouldn’t Fareeha get treated in the med bay? Also, apparently, Dr. Ziegler being the number one topic a drinking Fareeha talks about. Because they spend a lot of time together.

“And because the old man reminisced with me after we arm-wrestle, and said you look just like your mother when you are in love,” Zaryanova says, concluding her evidence.

Fareeha has a harder time explaining that one away. Because she looks like her mother in every other way, why wouldn’t she?

Her speechlessness gives Zaryanova pause. It seems to occur to her that maybe they should speak of this more privately, for she pulls Fareeha aside, even though the hallway in the docking area has been empty for a while.

In a lower voice, she asks: “Did you _not_ make a move yet?”

Fareeha doesn’t say yes or no. She repeats: “Do we really look that way?”

Without hesitation she is answered: “Yes. Lovey-dovey like dove and falcon. Very strong aesthetic.”

It’s odd to revisit feelings from when she was a girl. Maybe because the feelings then and the feelings now are so different. She used to think of how pretty Dr. Ziegler was, about how impressive it was that she was part of Overwatch, same as her mother, even though she was not much older than Fareeha. She used to daydream in ways kids with crushes do, and in those fantasies Dr. Ziegler was constantly flawless and untouchable. Idolised.

Now, when she thinks of Dr. Ziegler, she thinks of how she’s sleeping on top of the desk, imprinting the keyboard onto her cheek. She thinks of how there’s always two half-finished cups of cold coffee anywhere in her quarters. She thinks of how that flawless, golden hair she used to think of as angelic is just messy and tangled, barely hidden in a ponytail.

She thinks of how Dr. Ziegler laughs, first snorting, then trying to play it off as a demurer chuckle. She thinks of how warmly Dr. Ziegler smiles at her when she realises that Fareeha has cleaned up her lab a bit, and carried her to her bedroom. The gentle way she says “Fareeha”.

It isn’t like those feelings she had when she was a child, when Dr. Ziegler was out of her reach. Yet now, within her radar, she suddenly appears vulnerable. Fareeha hasn’t thought of these feelings as evident of something other than care and affection, as they so differ from the childhood worship masquerading as a crush. Forced to confront the change by Zaryanova’s words and observations, she feels shaken in her convictions.

Her thoughts must be evident on her face, at least to someone with keen perception like her friend’s, for Zaryanova shoves her friendlily.

“You look like you’ve seen ghost. Is love that scary?”

It seems a jovial statement, but it weighs on Fareeha nevertheless. She ponders it.

“Maybe I can give you a better answer after I’ve had something to drink,” she says. It’s the first time she’s taken that initiative, and she wishes she had done it more often, as it seems to make Zaryanova most happy indeed.

“Yes, let us drink and talk of love!” she says like it’s an open invitation to the world to join them. Fareeha suddenly can’t wait to get started.

 

* * *

 

When there’s a light, awkward knock on Angela’s open door late at night, her immediate response is to ask: “Fareeha?”

She feels a tiny bit aggravated by her disappointment that it is Mei, since truly, she isn’t displeased with her company.

Mei comes in with two cups of jasmine tea on a plate and an apologetic smile, which is customary to her character.

“Sorry, it’s just me,” she says, though she doesn’t seem offended. “I was brewing tea and thinking that you might want some?”

They sit down in the mostly unused armchairs in what should be the break area of the lab facility and drink. Once, at the height of Overwatch’s influence, there were many scientists and researchers stationed there, filling the facility with life and breakthroughs. Now its population is sparse, same as the rest of what has become Overwatch’s headquarter, and Angela, Mei and Winston are the only ones who work there regularly – the rest who come there are in need of medical care. Or they’re Fareeha.

The steam from the tea warms her face when Angela brings the cup up. The rest of her feels cold, as she blows on it to cool down.

Truth to be told, she isn’t fully on-board with the reinstituted Overwatch yet. They were shut down for a reason, no matter the pure intentions. The size of this place is evidence of their overreaching, and though the facility is still state of the art, she can’t help but feel like she would be of more use on the ground. Saving lives one by one.

She knows what Fareeha would say. They had this discussion when Fareeha was one of the agents who persuaded her to return, just weeks after she herself had joined up. Fareeha would say that they – Overwatch – would entrusts their lives to her, and by saving them they would be able to save even more.

Fareeha’s large friend, Aleksandra, would second this, as would Reinhardt, still going strong, and Jesse. Genji too – looking better than Angela had thought he ever would again, at peace with himself.

She thinks, sometimes, that she’s back for the wrong reasons. Because she cares for this specific, tiny group of people more than the world. And again, she knows what Fareeha would say to her doubts: to not shoulder the weight of the world alone. It’s quite amazing that Ana’s daughter, that once tiny girl in flowy dresses, would end up becoming her pillar of strength.

She’s grown so fond of her. Reliant.

Come to think of it, she doesn’t really know what Mei’s experiences with such feelings are. She isn’t married, that much Angela knows, but beyond that she’s clueless. Though it would appear rude to bring it up for the sake of speaking of her own troubles.

Luckily, she doesn’t have to.

“Fareeha comes here a lot, doesn’t she?” Mei asks innocuously over her tea. Her glasses are fogged over.

“She does,” Angela agrees. “Fretting over me.” Though it isn’t said as critique.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

“Not at all.” Angela sighs, leaning back in the stiff armchair, tea cupped over her thighs. “Maybe I do need someone else to pry so I won’t get lost in circular thinking.”

Mei has put down her cup on the coffee table to rub away the fog with her sleeves.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she says. “Sometimes we get so lost in our minds we don’t see what’s happening in front of our eyes.” She puts her glasses back on. “Especially shut away in our labs like this.”

Angela cocks her head to the side, smiles, asks:

“And what is it that is happening in front of your eyes, Mei?”

It’s so much easier to deflect and speak of someone else, especially one who has spent the majority of her twenties frozen solid, still able to blush at friendly probing.

“Oh, you know…” A brilliant, well-travelled scientist reduced to a teenager. “I think Zarya might have… flirted with me? But I’m not used to being flirted with and I only realised she might have been flirting hours after it happened. And I don’t know if I’m making it up or if I am just dense. Or if she directed it at me, or if she’s like that with other women too.”

Mei trails off, but Angela’s patient silence prompts her to elaborate.

“We were on that follow-up operation in Russia and I asked her if she doesn’t get cold going sleeveless like that. And she said: she’ll tell me her secret if I let her borrow my coat. Was that flirting? Or just joking? I don’t know how to interpret it… and I’ve just been mulling it over so much. And whenever I see her, with those amazing muscles of hers exposed, I’m reminded all over… Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No, it’s all right,” Angela says. Feels older than she’ll ever truly look. “Can I ask you something? Do you want it to be flirting?”

Mei shifts a bit in her seat.

“Maybe. I think so. But at the same time, it makes me so self-conscious. She seems more experienced in these matters, and I don’t want to somehow disappoint her. Though if it _was_ flirting, then I already have.”

“Well, luckily, there’s a remedy for that,” Angela says. “Why don’t you try flirting with her? If she was flirting with you, she’ll respond positively. If she wasn’t, she might still play along. Regardless, you will have done your part, and put the ball in her court, so to speak.”

It seems like Mei might want to object, probably owing to her inexperience at romance, but somehow, Angela’s words seem to have struck accord with her, when she slowly closes her mouth again. Thoughtful, she takes a deep breath.

“Doctor’s orders,” Angela adds cheekily, and Mei exhales into a laugh.

“Very well, thank you, doctor.”

Yes, it’s easier to speak of someone else’s feelings. Angela wonders if she’d ever take her own advice.

 

* * *

 

Fareeha wonders why her best friend in the whole world has two heads. Squinting a little, she sees them merge into one. Ah. So she was just a bit woozy. She moves forward without really feeling her legs, though looking down, she sees that they are still very much attached to her person. Zaryanova’s arm is around her waist, and her arm is slung over Zaryanova’s shoulders. Ah. So that’s how she’s walking straight.

If she is. It’s a bit hard to tell.

What time is it? She hasn’t looked since… two a.m.? Something like that. Sleep beckons, but she isn’t really that tired. Or maybe she is.

Zaryanova is singing some song in Russian, sounding like a military anthem. Sober Fareeha wouldn’t have joined in even if she knew the lyrics, but drunken Fareeha tries her best to keep up, humming the tune and trying to mimic the sounds Zaryanova is making. Loudly, both of them.

The bar they went to is quite a bit off base, and the walk back is over barren, rocky land. No one is there to hear their song, which echoes through the night. How sad, thinks Fareeha.

Suddenly, she feels solemn. Her song stops, and after another verse, Zaryanova realises that she’s gone from a duet to a solo act.

“Rocket girl, cheer up!” she says, shaking Fareeha a bit. It does not help her dizziness. “You may not be with pretty doctor, but you are with me!”

Pretty doctor. Dr. Ziegler. Angela. Angel. Angel doctor. Pretty doctor. Ah.

“Dr. Ziegler.”

“ _Da_ , Dr. Ziegler, love of your life, your _dorogaya_ ,” Zaryanova concurs.

 _Dorogaya_. Fareeha has no idea what it means, but it sounds nice. It makes her feel all warm, thinking of pretty Dr. Ziegler.

“Love of my…” What did Zaryanova say again? “Dogaya?”

Her attempt at Russian has Zaryanova howling with contagious laughter, and soon the two of them have stopped their walk back to catch their breath.

“Love of your dogaya,” Zaryanova repeats, and they begin laughing again for no reason whatsoever.

The topic doesn’t seem so heavy anymore. It’s easy, uncomplicated, endlessly happy, to think of doga-something Dr. Angel. Ziegler. Mercy? That woman with blonde hair, a halo and a set of artificial wings, hovering alongside her in the air now and again, saying that she’s right beside her.

“See?” Zaryanova says, hand on Fareeha’s chin to tilt her head up. Zaryanova is the only woman Fareeha has had to look up at since her fruitful growth sprout ended. “Lovey-dovey.”

“I see your point,” Fareeha agrees, pushing away the hand. Is she floating a little bit? But she isn’t in her armour.

She’s lighter, has to be. Though maybe it’s just the alcohol. Could be.

“I’ve caught feelings for Dr. Ziegler,” she admits aloud, and it isn’t an awful admission. Why was she trying to chase them down?

“You have,” says Zaryanova. “Good. Love makes you stronger. Love for your country, your family, your friends, your lovers, it’s all the same.”

No, Fareeha wants to say, though not about the strength part. It’s just, it doesn’t feel like patriotism, or the fondness she feels of her loud and large friend, and her former fellow soldiers. It isn’t really like anything else. She’s been in love before – she’s had two girlfriends she considered herself serious about – but was it really like this? It feels insignificant in comparison.

How could she not realise the nature of her feelings before they were pointed out to her?

She must be sobering, for her thoughts are becoming coherent. Right on time for the two of them to return to the base as well. She walks more steadily towards the sleeping quarters over even ground, though now and again finds herself leaning against the rock beside her. Zaryanova is a good friend.

They share sleeping quarters with agents Oxton, Song and Zhou. Dr. Ziegler has her own room, courtesy of her seniority, and its proximity to the med bay. Suddenly it seems like a shame, because Fareeha wouldn’t mind seeing her right about now. For no particular reason.

Oxton is snoring on the bed across from Zaryanova’s, when the two of them find their way into the room from a much needed visit to the bathroom. Zhou is sleeping on her stomach, but the bed next to hers, Song’s, is empty. Fareeha imagines she might have yet to adjust her sleeping pattern to Gibraltar’s time zone – she’s a recent arrival – but Zaryanova guesses that she’s up playing video games. Ah. Could be.

Oxton grumbles in her sleep when they converse, so they keep it down. The silence feels like a buzz, and lying down, Fareeha is even dizzier. The dizziness persists throughout the entire night, through her sleep, and when she wakes up at nine sharp, she vows to never again drink.

Next to her bed, there’s a glass of water and two painkillers, alongside a note. Fareeha squints and sits up slowly in order to read it, which is a true challenge. The scribbles seem to say “For a speedy recovery”, and are accompanied by a wholly unreadable signature.

Fareeha swallows the pills and the water, before clutching the note to her chest, feeling still very much intoxicated. And determined.

 

* * *

 

Angela is eating a plain salad and reading a two days old newspaper when Aleksandra, drenched in sweat and clad in tight sportswear, enters the kitchen. Aleksandra greets her with a nod before bending over to reach for a protein drink in the fridge, but doesn’t say anything else. It’s up to Angela to start the conversation.

“Did you and Fareeha enjoy yourselves last night, Aleksandra?”

Mei had seen them leave last night, and Angela knows it to be a tradition – albeit a troubling one – after missions.

Aleksandra downs the entire drink before leaning against the counter and answering.

“Yes, it was a very good night. Rocket girl sang with me and drank more than usual.”

“How did she feel this morning, then?”

“Much better after doctor prescribed her those pills,” Aleksandra replies, sounding cunning.

Like Angela suspected, Fareeha told her about that – might be sharing other information with her, too. Angela wonders if she can coax more out of her without overstepping. It’s a tricky line to walk, however.

“I’m glad to hear it. Though I would be happier still if you didn’t drink as much.”

Aleksandra snorts.

“I think I can handle my liquor, doctor. Rocket girl is getting the hang of it too.”

She has to change tactics. Angela can’t help but scoff, but she keeps further reservations down. She hasn’t had much time to speak to Aleksandra outside of assignments – she rarely eats in the kitchen, preferring to take her food with her back to the lab – but after speaking to Mei last night, she decides to pry, both for her own sake, and her friend’s.

“Speaking of drinking, I was having tea with Mei, yesterday.”

The mention of Mei’s name makes Aleksandra’s eyes flicker in recognition, and Angela thinks that perhaps her advice last night will bear fruit after all.

“Yes, I know.” The response surprises her, and Aleksandra’s smirk lets her know it’s noticeable. “I invited her to drink with me but she does not like alcohol. Said she would check in on doctor. Mei is a very nice girl.”

Angela can’t help but ask, given the delicate, feigned ignorance with which they’re discussing:

“Do you like nice girls, Aleksandra?”

“I might,” Aleksandra says without missing a beat. Then: “Me and rocket girl have similar tastes.”

With those parting words, she winks and leaves for the showers. Angela tries not to read too far into the statement nor the gesture, even though she’s been baited to do so.

She feels very young. Gossiping about love in a military unit called a peace force. Feeling rejuvenated over the silliest bits of hope. She hasn’t entertained thoughts of mutual attraction, even though she isn’t so naïve as to disregard it entirely, but it has felt inappropriate, somehow. Fareeha is different, and Angela thinks that she likes her in two incompatible ways: as her own person, Fareeha, the impressive, protective, decisive and fearsome soldier; but also as Ana’s daughter, a precious, lost, vulnerable girl in need of protection.

She can’t love the former while still loving the latter, and she can’t divorce the two from each other. It’s manageable when it’s just her own part to consider, however, but starting to think that her feelings are returned won’t lead to anything good.

Her eyes continue to scan the paper but soon she realises that she isn’t reading anymore. Nothing sticks when she tries. Rubbing her eyes, she gets up from the chair and brews coffee to bring with her back to the lab. She came out of her recluse hoping to come across Fareeha without appearing needy, but now it doesn’t feel like a good idea at all.

 

* * *

 

Fareeha considers approaching the med bay. Has considered it all day. After skipping the morning workout, as she was recuperating from her humiliating hangover, she’s spent the day being uncharacteristically lazy. She’s earned that privilege, Oxton would say, but it isn’t in her nature to do nothing. She’s tried reading, but her thoughts have been invasive and persistent, both pertaining to what Zaryanova confronted her with before they went to that bar, as well as the revelation she reached on her own, after it.

Now sober, it seems less fantastic, and much more frightening. She has no idea what to expect from it, or what the appropriate response to such inappropriate feelings is. Now that she’s past the stage of denial it feels like the intensity of her affection is making up for all that time she spent in wilful ignorance. She can’t push it down, and it scares her, not knowing how she’ll respond to Dr. Ziegler now that she’s been made aware of her so-dubbed googly eyes.

However, she is a woman of action. She likes to be on the offensive, and this indecisiveness doesn’t befit her. Loath as she is to make things between them awkward with a one-sided crush, Dr. Ziegler isn’t malicious. She wouldn’t hold it against her.

Still, she paces outside of the lab area. Winston passed her a bit earlier asking if she needed anything, and she already feels foolish for being there without daring to go inside, and telling him kindly no.

It’s just a couple of automatically opened doors. She should be able to breach this passage easily. As soon as she calms down and stops being so nervous. She never knew the prospect of love could be this daunting.

Love makes you strong? Zaryanova’s drunken wisdom laughs in Fareeha’s hangover face.

She’s about to walk in, for the eleventh time, when she hears footsteps approaching. They’re not the clacks of Dr. Ziegler’s heels, however, so she feels cowardly relieved.

It is agent Zhou who appears, humming something under her breath, her tiny robot hovering beside her head. She stops when she notices that Fareeha is so lamely standing outside the first barrier into the lab facility.

“Oh, are you here to meet Angela?” Zhou guesses, for some reason seeming incredibly thrilled for that reason.

On their way out last night, they had passed her, and Zaryanova had asked her to come with. Zhou had reclined and said she was planning on surprising Dr. Ziegler with tea. Fareeha borrows from Zaryanova’s intuition, and guesses that just like she knows Fareeha’s side of it, Zhou knows Dr. Ziegler’s. So the reason for her happiness-

Fareeha shuts down the conspiracy before it can get any more convoluted. That kind of gossip she can do without: she’s here to act.

“Yes,” she says, as firmly as if she’s giving an order.

At this, Zhou’s eyes practically sparkle to match her smile, and Fareeha briefly thinks about a comment Zaryanova made at the bar last night about how cute “Mei” is. She remembers it because of the irregularity of her friend’s use of someone’s name. If nothing else, Zhou’s smile is added encouragement, and with that, Fareeha goes in. Open, sesame.

 

* * *

 

Angela needs it pointed out to her. And when Fareeha comes to her with something to say, she can read it plain as day.

Fareeha is bold when she enters the med bay with determined eyes, but she’s bashful when she remembers to start off with thanking her for the water and medication this morning. She is strong where Angela isn’t, confessing to her feelings, but she is vulnerable too, when she awaits Angela’s response. She is protective, yet protected – and Angela realises when she comes to her without armour and without means to shield either herself of Angela that they aren’t mutually exclusive at all. That this current Fareeha who looks after her and lets Angela lean on her for support is also someone who can be looked after and supported.

It isn’t complicated to return such feelings. It isn’t scary to admit them aloud, or to herself.

Fareeha calls her Dr. Ziegler, still. She stands a meter apart from where Angela is seated when she begins, and when she is finished, Angela has stood up and crossed that distance.

“Dr. Ziegler, I have something to say to you. Oh, but first of all, thank you for this morning. Now,” Fareeha began, with awkwardness which easily disappeared, “It has become clear to me that it is not mere camaraderie or admiration which has levitated me towards you. It isn’t convenience or the result of a former childhood crush. I have realised that my feelings for you run deeper than that.”

When her strength and vulnerability are both exposed, Angela needn’t hear more to know what she means. She gives Fareeha pause by stroking down her arm with a touch soft and coy. When she starts up again, Angela only looks up fondly so that she stops.

Not that she doesn’t want to hear the rest of the confession, even if she doesn’t need it. But it might be lethal if it continuous to be so wholly honest sounding.

So Angela says:

“Fareeha, I have known for a while that I feel the same for you. You don’t need to say anything else.”

Fareeha’s skin is warm under her touch, seems softer than a soldier’s would, though her muscles are solid beneath when she presses. Heavenly.

Now, she allows herself to think of them wrapped around her, a mere moment before they are. She allows herself to think of Fareeha’s body in ways she’s always supressed by her professionalism, and wonders briefly if it will complicate future medical procedures – or if getting acquainted with all of Fareeha will lead to the opposite.

When she leans up to kiss her, whose arms are secured around Angela’s waist, she lets out a near desperate sounding moan. It is the most wonderful sound Angela has heard.

Fareeha moans out: “Dr. Ziegler,” even after she has it whispered into her ear, hot and breathy, that “Angela” is all right. Maybe not now, then, but this will hardly be the last time they kiss.

It feels right, and her worries seem utterly silly in hindsight. Has it just been so long that she’s forgotten how wonderful it feels to be held and loved? Or was she just waiting for someone – for Fareeha – to cross the threshold first and let her know that it’s all right to want and be wanted?

Fareeha’s overwhelming affection and adoration of her become so apparent as they are intimate that she questions how she could ever doubt their existence. It’s impressive to think they kept this at bay – and she realises how obvious it must have been for everyone else, for Mei, for Aleksandra, with the way they have been acting.

Together, always right beside one another, on base, on the field, in their minds. Doting and taking care of each other, looking after each other, loving each other. Only now realising what they have already made clear to the world. Belonging together.

It’s a scary thought, that reliance, but Fareeha makes it seem safe. They are weak and strong both, together.


End file.
